


apricity

by therestlessbrook



Series: a world unending [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 06:36:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18405140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: Apricity (noun) the warmth of the sun in the winterOr, Frank and Karen in their first winter storm.





	apricity

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of fluff. Set about three months after Frank and Karen’s first date.

There have been warnings in the news all week—and Karen has ignored them all.

The thing is, she knows what goes on behind the scenes of newspapers. She works for one. So she understands how things can be blown out of proportion, how headlines can be tweaked for the most drama, and how important it is to double-check one’s facts.

WINTER STORM OF THE CENTURY is just another attention-grabber headline. So she goes about her work as normal, but she does wear a heavier coat.

“What are you still doing here?” asks Ellison, as he passes by her office. “I told everyone to go home before the storm hit.”

Karen gives him an exasperated glance. “I grew up in Vermont. Sorry but New York winters aren’t exactly terrifying. And you told me to have this finished by tomorrow.”

“You have a laptop; use it. Go home, finish it there.” He nods at the windows. The sky is a cast-iron gray. “Last thing I want to have to write about is ‘Bulletin Reporter Found Frozen in Snow Drift.’ It’d be embarrassing.”

She snorts. “Go home, Ellison. I’ll leave as soon as I’m done with this.”

He shakes his head, but he does leave.

She’s the last one in the office—even the janitors are gone. She finishes typing up her article, hits ‘send,’ and then rises from her desk. Her coat is a heavy wool one, and she pulls it on. The windows are darker than before, and snow flurries have begun to whip against the glass.

When she steps out of the building, a blast of winter air hits her so hard that she staggers and has to put a hand out, bracing herself on a bike rack. Her teeth chatter and she grits her teeth. All right, so maybe it _is_ a bad winter storm.

Another gust of wind hits her, and snow stings her bare cheeks. She braces herself against the wind, slipping a little on the icy sidewalk when—

An arm wraps around her waist, steadying her. A glance to her left and she sees him standing beside her; he must have slipped out from the shadow of a nearby alley.

“Frank,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Knew you wouldn’t leave work before the storm hit. Site dismissed us early—figured we could walk home together.”

She isn’t sure what she finds more touching—that he’s been standing out in the cold waiting for her or that he knows her well enough to guess she would work late. “Is this your roundabout way of calling me a workaholic?”

“Naw,” he says, smiling a little. “This is my roundabout way of saying I remembered you wore heels to work.”

Sure enough, she is wearing pumps. She shakes her head in amusement. “I knew you were looking at my ass when I was grabbing my shoes out of the closet.”

“I was not,” he says, good natured. “I wouldn’t do that.” A pause. “I was looking at your legs.”

She laughs. “Well, all right then.”

They set off together, his arm still around her. It’s as much a gesture of affection as it is a precautionary measure; the sidewalks are swiftly becoming slick and crunchy with fresh snow. There are few others, hoods draw close, umbrellas waving in the wind, as people scurry for cars or subway stairs. The winds whip between buildings, stirring up snow and tearing at Karen’s hair. She pulls her coat a little more tightly around herself. Her nose burns with cold and she curses herself silently for not bringing a hat.

By the time they reach Karen’s apartment building, she can’t feel her face or ears too well, and her breaths are jerky with cold. Frank keeps pulling her closer, and he’s warm as a furnace, but there’s only so much he can do. As soon as their door is unlocked, Karen stumbles out of her heels and goes to turn up the heater. Frank shrugs out of his heavy winter coat.

His beard has grown out in the last three months since they’ve begun dating. It makes him look a little more rugged, but he’s kept it neater than that first time. It’s a reassurance, because Frank Castle’s face is still a little too recognizable for her comfort. She worries that even the unspoken protection of the CIA won’t keep someone from spotting his face on a security camera or tourist’s cell phone when they’re snapping pictures of New York streets. The thought of losing him, only after finding this—it scares her more than she could ever say.

“You should go shower,” he says. “Thaw yourself out. I can reheat some of the leftovers from last night.”

The idea is undeniably appealing. Her skin prickles with cold and discomfort.

She slips out of her coat, hanging it beside the door. She is wearing a blue sheath dress. And while it’s not precisely weather-appropriate, it does show off her legs—which is half the reason she put it on this morning. She can feel his eyes on her now, as she turns her back toward him. The dress has a high zipper, one she has to strain to reach. She pulls her wind-tangled hair out of the way, then feels the light tug as he takes gentle hold of the zipper and pulls it down. His thumb lingers along her spine, stroking back and forth.

“Or,” she says, “you could join me in the shower.”

She reaches down, takes his hand, and laces their fingers together. When she glances at him, the hard lines of his face are softened with affection. It makes her heart ache and she gives into the need to kiss him. His beard is damp and soft, his mouth warm. He kisses with a kind of focused intensity that makes her stomach flutter like she missed a step on the stairs. His hand cups her cheek, and she relaxes into him, the last of her tension easing away.

Then there’s a buzzing noise—and everything goes quiet.

Unnaturally quiet.

Karen jerks back, opening her eyes. The apartment is dim and the fridge is silent.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Was that…?”

Frank’s mouth tightens. With a sigh, he tugs Karen’s zipper back into place, then opens the front door. He steps outside, and only gets a few steps before someone else opens their apartment door. It’s Rachel, the single mother from down the hall. She and Karen have exchanged mail-retrieval duties when the other goes out of town. “Is your power out, too?” Rachel says.

“Yes,” says Karen.

“Circuit breaker’s in the basement,” says Frank. “I’ll check.”

“We have a building manager for that,” says Karen.

Frank snorts. “I’ll just take a look. Faster than calling someone in.” He nods a greeting to Rachel, then strides toward the stairs.

“Don’t electrocute yourself, please,” calls Karen after him.

His snort is so loud she can hear it from down the hall.

Rachel watches him go, then shakes her head ruefully. “Never let that one go,” she says.

Karen laughs. “Don’t intend to.” She nods at Rachel’s half-open door. “Do you need anything?”

“No, luckily I already got dinner out of the oven before this happened,” replies Rachel. “Just wait an hour, and then the kids’ll be on my back because my phone’s battery is low.”

“I’ve got a spare charger ready to go,” says Karen, and goes to retrieve it. She is handing it to Rachel when Frank reemerges from the stairwell, looking a little dusty.

“It’s the whole block,” he says. “Not just us.”

“Well, that’s great,” says Rachel, taking the phone charger with a relieved look. “Hopefully they’ll get it on tonight. Can’t imagine weathering this storm for longer than a few hours without a heater.” She smiles tightly at Frank, then slips back into her apartment.

They return to their own apartment, and Karen begins unplugging a few electrical items that could be damaged by a power surge: her laptop, phone, the usual suspects. Then she surveys her apartment. Evening is coming on fast, and she’s still in her damp work dress. She wriggles out of it, pulling on some old flannel pajamas. With the power out, it’s not precisely the best time for sexy negligee.

Frank reaches into one of the cupboards and withdraws a battery-powered lantern that Karen is sure she never purchased. “I love that you’ve got survival equipment stashed at my place,” she says, amused.

“Safer than candles,” he says.

“But less romantic,” she replies. 

They eat a dinner of cold leftovers: pasta and tomato sauce. “At least there isn’t much in my fridge,” says Karen. “If everything goes bad, it won’t be much of a loss.”

Frank snorts. “That’s one way of saying, ‘Good thing we’ve both been too busy to go grocery shopping.’”

It’s true; Karen has been working hard on a new article about property zoning and two of Frank’s coworkers have been out sick. Karen is almost looking forward to the holidays, despite her usual habit of ignoring them, if only because that’ll mean a few days off.

After dinner, Karen stacks the plates in the sink, almost glad for the excuse not to wash them. When she goes into the bedroom, she finds Frank remaking the bed with every blanket she owns. Normally, Karen would gently tease him, but she’s still cold. She gets beneath the covers, pulling them tightly around her. Frank does one last check of the apartment, then comes into the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. She watches as he pulls off his shirt and jeans; in the portable lantern’s light, he looks a little paler than normal. He doesn’t put on heavier pajamas, but rather keeps his boxers on before getting into bed. He runs warmer than she does, and often this ends with her stealing one or two of his blankets and him not really caring. But tonight, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close. She shudders, the sudden warmth a shock to her cold skin.

“You should really start wearing warmer clothes to work,” he murmurs.

“It’s harder to charm sources if I’m in a parka.”

They’ve taken to reading in bed, if they’re not too tired or too busy having sex. It’s nice—domestic in a way that Karen appreciates. She is halfway through the new Fredrik Backman, while Frank is borrowing _A Tale of Two Cities_ from Curtis. But tonight, Karen knows she won’t be able to concentrate on the words.

One of Frank’s hands skims down her arm. He rubs a bit of warmth back into her fingers, and the contact and heat feel as heady as a shot of whiskey. “It isn’t even seven yet,” she says, exhausted. “How am I tired?”

“We didn’t get much rest last night,” he says, a little amused. She flushes at the memory. He picks up _A Tale of Two Cities_ one-handed, the other still stroking lines down Karen’s arm. “Get some sleep.”

She lets out a heavy breath, rolling onto her side. His shoulder makes for a decent pillow, and his arm around her feels too good to pull away from. She is warm for the first time since stepping out of the office, and there’s a sense of safety here she’s never found anywhere else: in bed, doors locked, Frank Castle reading beside her. She listens to the sound of the wind and snow battering at the window and the gentle rhythm of Frank’s breathing.

She wakes around four in the morning. Her nose is numb with cold and she turns her face into the pillow, sleepily scrabbling for the blankets. The space beside her is empty, and that jerks her awake more quickly than the screech of an alarm. She sits up. “Frank?”

The blankets have a hollow space where he should be; she glances about the bedroom, her heartbeat picking up. The hardwood floor is cold against her bare feet. Without the power, her apartment feels dark and too cold. She moves through the bedroom on memory alone, reaching for the doorknob and quietly pulling it open. There is more light in the living room—illumination from streetlights and cars manages to creep through her curtains.

She sees Frank on the couch, his phone in hand. “Hey,” she says softly.

He looks up sharply. “Did the phone wake you up? Shit—sorry.”

She wraps her arms around herself. “No. What’s going on?”

“There was a murder near my apartment,” says Frank. “Man killed in a mugging—turned out he had quite the criminal history. David called, asking if I was working again. Well, actually he assumed I was working again and wanted to lecture me.” 

“How,” she says, “is he still looking at security cameras when he’s at home with his family?”

Frank shrugs. “Probably has them routed to his computer now. Old habits—they’re hard to break.”

She knows. Frank has an armory hidden in their closet. Well, she would call it an armory; he would probably say it was just enough for a single fight. He may not be actively hunting criminals, but she knows he wants to be prepared should a threat ever break down their door.

“So he heard about a murder near your old place and thought of you?” she says. “He does know we’re living together, doesn’t he?”

Frank raises his brows. “Are we?”

“Frank.” She goes to sit on the couch. There’s a throw blanket and she wraps it around both of their legs. “When was the last time you spent the night at your place?”

He has to think about it. “Two weeks ago.”

“Why?”

“Because it was closer to Curt’s place, and we were up late. Easier to get back there.”

“And the time before that?”

He gives her a steady look. “You’re making a point here, I know. But…” He heaves a breath. “I spend a lot of time here. I just—it’s early. Don’t want you to feel like…”

“Feel like what?” she says.

He shrugs, looks at his hands. “Like you don’t have a way out. If you wanted me out.”

All right. So that’s what this is. He has his apartment as an escape route—not for him, but in case _she_ wants one.

If someone told her a year ago that the most considerate man she would ever date would be the Punisher, she would have laughed in their face. But here they are.

“Frank,” she says. “When’s your lease up?”

His brow creases a little in thought. “‘Bout a month.”

She leans into him, rests her head against his shoulder. “Don’t renew it. I mean—if you want to, of course, but—”

His hand covers hers, squeezes. She likes his hands—callused and scarred, slightly blunted around the nails. “You sure?” he says softly.

She knows everything he’s asking in those two words. And it’s easy for her to answer. “Yes,” she says. “I’m sure.” She rises, fingers still laced with his. “Now come back to bed.”

He does.

The apartment may be cold, but they manage to make their own heat well enough.

* * *

The next morning, when the power finally comes back on, the world is soft with snow. Karen admires the picture-perfect view of the street. At least before traffic and passersby carve lines in the snow and grind it into the pavement. She suspects she’ll be working from home today. 

She is reaching for the coffee maker when she overhears Frank calling his landlord.

She smiles and goes to pour coffee for them both. 

 


End file.
